Till We Meet Again
by el spirito
Summary: Takes place in The End universe- Future!Dean is injured, Cas is there. Includes character death and a bit of language. Gen. Written for a prompt at hoodietime.


Dean got shot a few weeks ago, damned Croat that got off a lucky shot before one of Dean's bullets hit him between the eyes. It wasn't bad, barely more than a graze, just hit muscle. It should have been fine.

It wasn't.

Dean knows something is wrong when he wakes up and his side feels tight and hot. He hisses as he pulls his shirt up, takes in the wound with its bright red center and tentacles of sickness spreading up his belly towards his heart. It's bad. He'd cleaned the wound out and taken antibiotics for a few days, but drugs of any kind (except weed, which Cas takes gleeful advantage of) are precious commodities, and there was no way in hell he was going to take more than his share.

He's paying for it now, running a fever and short of breath, and it's only a matter of time before-

"Sir?"

Dean looks up and waves Becker in. At 6'5, Becker is one of the few men in the camp who actually rivals Dean in size, but he's a loyal soldier, lost without someone else's guidance and leadership.

"Sir, we've run out of toilet paper. Again. We're also out of soap."

"Hand sanitizer?"

"We've got three bottles, sir. Should last us a week or two without the soap."

Dean sighs and scrubs at his temple, squinting as he tries to think of an appropriate thing to say without cussing Becker out. The toilet paper they could deal without, maybe, but hygiene is an absolute must. Without soap or hand sanitizer, the level of sickness in the camp is going to skyrocket.

"Okay. Get a group of five men, we'll move out in an hour."

"Yes, sir," Becker says, backing out of the tent.

Dean sighs and turns back to his wound. There is no doubt that it's infected, and badly enough that it's hit his bloodstream. Even if they had the strength of antibiotics he needs, and they don't, his survival would be a toss up.

He's screwed.

And now he has to go lead a group of men into dangerous territory, keep them all alive and uninfected, and get the damn supplies-assuming he doesn't collapse during the mission, of course.

Four hours later, he's back from the mission, having once again successfully led his men to the supplies they needed. He hadn't even had to kill anyone today.

They roll up to the camp, and Dean watches as everyone comes to help take the supplies to the supply tent. He feels shaky and hot, and his head feels thick and fuzzy. He doesn't even realize he's leaning on the truck to stay upright until Becker looks at him, frowning.

"Sir? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," Dean mutters, absently waving a hand in Becker's direction. "Don't they need help?"

Becker frowns again, then docilely goes to help with the supplies. Dean sags a bit with relief, then trudges toward his tent.

He's surprised to find Cas there, smelling distinctly of marijuana.

"Why are you here, Cas?" He asks tiredly just before collapsing onto his bed. "Orgy not fun enough today?"

Cas sighs. "It was enjoyable," he says, "but nothing extraordinary."

Dean rolls his eyes, then winces as he shifts and pain shoots up his side.

"Wow. Sorry, man," he says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. Cas frowns, then leans over and presses a palm to Dean's forehead.

"You're hot, Dean," he says, wide eyes locking on Dean's.

"Told you so," Dean mumbles, his words starting to slur.

"What's going on?" Cas demands, fingers fumbling with Dean's shirt. Dean bats at Cas's hands, but Cas stills him easily.

"Don' roll that way," Dean says. Cas spares a second to glare at him, then yanks. And swears.

"Shit, Dean," he says, his low voice hard and maybe a little scared.

"Not so bad," Dean whispers, idly trailing one of the lines of red. It's made a lot of progress since the last time he checked, alarmingly close to his heart now.

"Yes Dean, it is so bad," Cas says.

"I know," Dean says, smiling tiredly. "'M fucked."

Cas looks at the wound again, then back at Dean's face.

"What do we do?" He whispers. Dean laughs, but it's harsh and grating and it hurts.

"I know what _I'm_ doing," he says. He's dying. "Not sure about you."

Cas glares at him.

"Look, you guys can do this without me. Risa and Becker, they're good soldiers. They'll figure it out."

It's a blatant lie, and they both know it. No one in camp has Dean's experience.

"'M sorry, Cas," Dean says finally, bringing a trembling hand up to play with his hair.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," Cas answers, smiling wanly. "You did what you could, Dean Winchester."

Dean shakes his head.

"No. Didn't do enough. Didn't- Couldn't- not enough."

There's silence for a minute, because there isn't really anything to say after that. Dean gets cold suddenly and shivers, and Cas tucks a scratchy blanket around his shoulders.

"Wish Sammy could be here," Dean says finally, his voice breathy and disappearing. Cas looks at him with genuine sorrow in his eyes.

"I do too," he says.

"Stay with me?" Dean whispers, holding up a shaking hand. Cas clasps it immediately.

"Of course," Cas answers. "Always."


End file.
